Cassada (11 page)

Of course it has, Dunning thought. Goddamn it, I knew it when I first called. Look out the window, I said, look out the goddamn window!

“You're advised to proceed to your alternate. Call outbound over the beacon at thirty-five hundred feet.”

“Negative,” Dunning interrupted. “Bring them in here!”

“The field is closed, White.”

“This isn't White. This is mobile control.”

“Roger. Stand by one,” the controller said.

“Stand by nothing! This is Major Dunning in mobile. Bring them in. Bring them in here!”

There was the end of another transmission that had been blocked out,

“. . . an emergency!”

“What'd you say, White?”

“You were blocked, White,” the controller said. “Say again.”

“I'm declaring an emergency! I'm declaring an emergency!”

“Roger,” the controller said. In the background the intercom from the tower could be heard. “Can you proceed to Landstuhl?” the controller asked.

“Negative. I'm down to nine hundred pounds. I can't divert.”

Finally, after agonizing moments, the controller said, “Roger.” And as if it were ordinary routine, “Your position is six miles out on final. Correct two degrees left to zero five eight. Make that zero five five, drifting slightly to the right of on-course.”

“Zero five five.”

“Your gear should be down and locked. Uh, do you request crash equipment to stand by?”

“That's affirmative.”

“Roger. We're notifying the tower.” There was a pause. “Five and one half miles. At this time you need not reply to any further transmissions. Correct further left to zero five three. Zero five three is your new heading, bringing you slowly back to the on-course. Zero five three.”

The only sound was this almost self-involved voice. Five miles. Back right to zero five five. The waiting was interminable. Zero five five. Coming up to glide path.

The three of them stood waiting, their eyes on the area just beyond the end of the runway where the planes would emerge from the darkening scud. Zero five five.

At that moment the runway lights came on, dim and washed-out in the greyness, two long lines leading to where the fire trucks had pulled up on the middle taxiway, then going beyond.

Four miles out, the controller was saying. Zero five one.

“The lights aren't up all the way,” Dunning said.

Harlan, looking, gave a slight shrug.

“Call the tower,” Dunning ordered.

Harlan picked up the phone. “What's their number, Major? Do you know?”

“Look it up.”

“It's restricted. It's not in the book.”

“Ask the operator.”

Zero five one, still. Holding steady. Approaching the glide path. Zero five one.

“Come on, come on,” Dunning commanded. “Ask the operator!”

Drifting slightly to the right. Left two more degrees. Ten feet above the glide path.

Harlan was arguing with the operator, “I know it's restricted. Just put me through. It's urgent.”

Two and three-quarters miles from touchdown. Going slightly high again. Fifteen feet now. Zero four nine is your heading.

Dunning reached for the phone. “Listen, this is Major Dunning in mobile. We're having an emergency on the field! Get me the tower right away.”

“Sir, it's res—”

“Just get me the tower!”

“May I have your name again, sir?”

“Dunning, goddamn it! Major Dunning!”

“Yes, sir, Major.”

Tracking the right side. Twenty feet high on the glide path. Twenty-five. Still zero four nine. Now fifteen feet high. Coming back nicely. Ten. Back on glide path. Now going slightly low.

Hold it steady, Dunning said to himself.

Ten feet low. Now going to twenty. Bring it up. Thirty feet low.

Harlan at last had the tower. “They're turned all the way up now,” he reported.

“Tell them to turn them down and then up again.”

A mile and three quarters out. Holding forty feet low. The runway lights faded like guttering candles, nearly went out, then came up again.

“Not any brighter,” Harlan said.

“All right. Tell them to leave them like that.”

A mile and a half. Approaching GCA minimums. Left to zero four seven. Make that further left to zero four five.

Big corrections at the last moment. Dunning was looking hard at the clouds as headlights came up alongside and a figure hurried towards them from the car. It was Colonel Cadin, the fighter group commander. He pushed into the mobile.

Holding forty feet low. Off slightly to the right. Zero four five. Make that zero four zero. Passing through GCA minimums.

“What's going on, Bud?” Cadin said. “Who's up there?”

Suddenly Godchaux's arm flew up, pointing, and in the same instant the planes appeared, sinking through the clouds.

“They're not lined up,” Godchaux said.

“You're off to the right!” Dunning called on the radio.

They were a hundred feet wide of the runway, breaking in and out of the heavy bottoms, slipping from sight, then reappearing. They began a bank towards the runway as they passed overhead, the noise loud and condensed, and a moment later vanished in the clouds.

“You're too long, White,” Dunning called. “You're way too long.”

They were in sight again, crossing over the lights about a third of the way down, still in a turn. They were not trying to land. They were trying to stay beneath and come around again.

“Stay on your instruments, White!” Dunning warned. “It's too low!”

“I have the runway.”

“Who is that?” Cadin asked.

“Stay on your instruments!” Dunning called.

They shot through cloud whisps, still low, appearing, disappearing, spread apart a little and both, from the dark smoke, carrying a lot of power.

“I've lost you, White,” Dunning called. “Do you still have the runway?”

Silence.

“Watch it, White. Fly your instruments, boy. It's too low.”

There was a fragment that sounded like, “. . . no good,” and soon after, “climbing up.”

Dunning felt a moment of relief despite himself, knowing it was not over, it would be worse, the relief one has with a dying man who begins to breathe smoothly.

“Who is that?” Cadin said.

“A lieutenant. Cassada. Isbell's radio is out. He's got him on his wing.”

“Can you send them to an alternate?”

“All the alternates are down. They don't have the fuel.”

“What are they doing clearing into here with weather like this?” Cadin demanded. He was a full colonel, a year younger than Dunning.

“I wish I knew.”

“Ah, Bud,” Cadin said. “Jesus.”

Over the air then, almost casually, came the question, “Do you have White Two?”

“Negative, White Lead,” Dunning said. “Did you lose him?”

There was no reply. Dunning saw Godchaux's and Harlan's faces, expressionless, turned towards him. Not that far off, across the shadowy grass, he could see the lights of his office still on. It was ages ago that he had been sitting there. For a moment, he could not think.

“White Lead,” he called, “are you still with White Two?”

It was like a courtroom, the icy question hung in the air. The controller was asking calmly, “Do you request another approach, White?”

“I'm separated from White Two,” came the reply. “Do you have him on your scope?”

“You're separated from your wingman?”

“Affirmative. Do you have him?”

“Stand by,” the controller said.

The clouds were dark now, solid as ice floes. Halfway down the runway the noiseless red lights of the waiting fire trucks were flashing. The sun had gone down, unseen. The day had ended. Dunning could sense it, feel it in his bones.

Isbell walked out of his office, turning off the light. It was early evening but still bright. He went down the hallway towards the back door. The building was empty, he could tell from the sound of his footsteps. The typewriters were silent, the adding machine.

In front of the bulletin board he stopped to read the notices. Under TEMPORARY was a photograph someone had clipped after they'd gotten back from Tripoli, curled at the edges but still there, a chimpanzee in goggles riding a motor scooter, and printed beneath:
Just let me have a decent airplane, Captain—I'll murder it.
Isbell had never seen Cassada looking at it, but there was no doubt he'd seen it. He had become more removed, his pride drawn tighter around him, buttoned at the collar.

Outside it was May dusk. Everyone had gone, the hardstand was empty. A stillness had fallen. A lone car came along the taxiway from the hangar, someone from maintenance who waved as they passed and turned down towards the gate, red taillights flashing on as they stopped and the guard came out to motion them by.

Across the base, in the housing area, the banks of lights were beginning to show. They would grow brighter as the buildings themselves faded. In the end they would float through the darkness, freed, like a liner at sea. Isbell stood for a while. He could smell the wetness in the earth, the world turning green. Each day it seemed stronger.

Far to the east, toward Mannheim, the sky was a scrawl of white tracings brilliant in the last light. The final encounters. He watched them as they slowly faded and disappeared, lopsided circles falling off into vertical drops. A last pair, fresh, were moving across the distant sky—Canucks probably, out of Zweibrücken. Slow as an eclipse they sped along, pencil thin, seeking.

Everything was quiet. The boulevards of the field were deserted, the intersections empty. It had been a day. It had been clear since dawn. Everybody had been up, searching like foxes, eager to meet. Up and over they had rolled in dogfights, filled with excitement, the ground above their heads, smoke rising blue from the towns, heaven beneath their feet. They had fought the crazy Canucks. They had fought the other groups and squadrons, they had fought one another, landing and hurrying in afterwards to shout about triumphs.

He stood complete and weary. He felt content. The last two contrails had straightened out. The Canadians were heading west again, going home to sneak in just before dark.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

Outside the store, Godchaux turned.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Dunning.”

She shook her head slightly. “I thought I told you about that.”

“Mayann,” Godchaux managed to say.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

Godchaux gestured towards the interior which was tiled in white. “Buying mussels,” he said. “I told Jackie Grace I was coming down here and I'd get some for her.”

Mayann Dunning made a face. “I'd rather eat pigs' feet,” she said. “How do you cook them?”

“Gee, I don't know. She's going to cook them. I'm supposed to get three pounds. I was coming to Trier anyway, so I just . . .”

“Coming to Trier to do what?”

“Just look around.”

“Look around for what?”

She had looked at him many times, in fact it was difficult not to
look at him, but she had never had the opportunity with no one around. His skin was smooth and clear, his eyebrows dark but fine. Feeling her stare, in defense he smiled. His teeth!

“Where'd you get your eyelashes?” she said.

“I don't know.” He gave an embarrassed shrug. “They just came.”

“I'll come in with you while you get the mussels.”

“I was going to get them on the way back.”

“You don't want me to come in with you.”

“No, it'd be fine. I was just not going to do it right now.”

“Well, I'll come with you while you're doing whatever else you're doing.”

“Just walking around.”

“Jackie's cooking dinner?” Mayann asked as they walked.

“Yes, ma'am. We're all going over there.”

“That's nice. She takes care of the bachelors in the flight.”

“I guess she does.”

“Sews on your buttons.”

“She doesn't do that.”

“Who does?”

She liked talking to him. Perhaps she would never really talk to him, but it was pleasant trying.

They walked on. Trier was an old town of dark red brick, a town dating back to Roman times. It was historically important but not particularly interesting. There were the remains of a large amphitheater somewhere—Mayann had gone with the wives' club to see it—some Roman baths, and vineyards up in the hills.